Ineffable Inevitable
by AngeloftheOdd
Summary: Crowley/Aziraphale slash. After averting Doomsday, Crowley ponders his purpose in the grand scheme of things. PG-13, fluff, humour.


**Ineffable Inevitable**

**By AngeloftheOdd**

Crowley cast a sideways look at the angel and sighed. It really was true that Heaven had no taste. Aziraphale had been given the choice to shape himself in any form he deemed worthy. Why he had opted for a body that was on the short side, near-sighted and rather paunchy was beyond Crowley. True there was something decidedly cherubic about the round, pleasant face, framed by a ridiculous mop of blond curls, but the demon had thought the glasses unnecessary.

When Aziraphale had questioned him about _his_ decision to wear shades, Crowley had irritably retorted it was simply a matter of _taste_, something that he doubted Aziraphale would be able to recognize if it manifested and bit him on the arse. Then, there was that horrible dumpy cardigan. It was in a style that the demon personally thought was better suited to grandfathers or Scottish terriers; who resembled one another at any rate. It was all a bit of a mystery to him but it was, and this brought a smile to his thin, pale lips, all part of what made Aziraphale _Aziraphale_. And, he was loath to admit, he wouldn't simply have had it any other way. He had grown accustomed to that ingratiatingly prim and proper visage that belonged to his oldest and, when he got right down to it, _only_ friend.

"What are you looking at, dear?" the angel asked.

It was another of Aziraphale's annoying traits to refer to very nearly everyone in that simple endearing term. It aggravated Crowley to no end. He was certainly _not_ dear...at least not to anyone other than Aziraphale. And that was only because they'd known each other...well forever.

"Hmm?" Crowley replied, not even realizing that he had been focusing his gaze somewhere around the point of the angel's right ear for the past ten minutes without having said a word.

"You seem to have something on your mind," Aziraphale said. "And you've let your supper go cold."

"It's supposed to be cold..." Crowley murmured, "'S steak tar tar."

He made a gesture with his hand and the plate in front of him disappeared. He couldn't even bring himself to make a scathing insult towards his companion. It must have something to do with averting the Apocalypse, he firmly decided. He was going all soft with nothing horrifying to look forward to.

Aziraphale, who had no intention of abandoning his meal so quickly, gave him a long look. His perfectly manicured nails clicked against the bottle of Chateau Lafitte that they had been sharing.

"Well," he said finally. "Best let it out then. You're a wretched sight when you're being anything other than a perfect bastard, Crowley."

This prompted a small, reptilian grin to form on the demon's face.

"I'm rather glad I managed to tempt you into lunch today." he said.

Aziraphale dabbed at his mouth gently with a white napkin and shrugged. It hadn't so much been a temptation as an invitation but he wasn't going to let on if it could get Crowley to tell him whatever it was that was bothering him.

"As am, I, dear," the angel replied.

The demon sighed and took a swig of wine that was probably much too large to allow for proper savouring of the flavor and subtle after-tones. _Bugger it_ he thought. He wasn't in the mood to be sober. Especially not when questioning blue eyes...as blue as the sky on a clear day when the horizon stretched to infinity...were quickly burning their way into his soul. His decidedly very black and most certainly midnight soul he reminded himself.

"Well seems like...," Crowley began. "That our purpose here is a little in question after everything. I mean the humans seem to be getting on quite well without our interference. I'm starting to doubt they ever really needed it all that much to start off with."

_Ah_ Aziraphale thought. _So that's it. Philosophy_. Crowley didn't often get into moods like this but when he did he could get into a deeper funk than a jazz musician down on his last dime. And it was bloody hard to snap him out of it. Aziraphale hadn't seen him like this since the Spanish Inquisition.

"Perhaps," he began, cautiously. "Perhaps we should simply take the time to enjoy the world around us. We did, after all, save it. We owe ourselves that much."

There was a hint of pride in the angel's voice. Or maybe Crowley was just imagining things. The alcohol was beginning to get to his head. Still, he couldn't help but remember that rebellious tone that had quavered into Aziraphale's voice as he had spoke to Metatron. He was begining to realize there was probably a whole lot more to Aziraphale than he'd bothered to learn over the centuries. The angel was starting to fascinate him in ways he hadn't expected. And Go-...Sata..._something_ help whatever became the object of Crowley's specialized and focused fancies.

"You know, you're a bit of a hedonist in your own way," he said. "True, instead of wine, women and song, it's more along the lines of cocoa, old books and harps, but you indulge yourself nonetheless."

"I quite dislike harps, Crowley. You know this."

"'S not the point," the demon replied, waving his hand airily. "What I mean is...you've become a creature of comfort and habit every ounce as much as I have."

"I don't believe there's any specific rule against that," the angel replied, primly. "Besides, the whole end of the world stint was a bit more excitement than I dare say I'm used to and I would prefer to relax..."

The angel's eyes went wide with surprise. Crowley, true to his nature, could move as quick and as purposefully as a snake when he wanted to. He was behind the angel in a motion so fast that he appeared to have teleported there. Aziraphale's expression rapidly changed from one of surprise to one of mild amusement. Ah, this was more like the Crowley he knew.

"Let'sss go," the demon hissed, dropping a handful of money on the cafe table. "I could use some fresh air."

"But, my dear, we're already outsi-"

The final syllable melted into a soft "oh" as the demon's mouth closed over his. That wicked forked tongue tasting and probing gently. Long, slender fingers curling sinuously around locks of platinum hair, drawing him into a deep and sensuous kiss.

Crowley hadn't meant for it to happen like this. He really hadn't. He had been entertaining thoughts about doing _something_ naughty to the angel for quite some time now. In the darkest hours of the night, as he lay sprawled out on the bed that he didn't really need. It was going to be licentious and lascivious and all other sorts of other tantalizing words begining with the letter "L". It wasn't going to be sweet and gentle, damn it. It was going to be the type of passion that made the angels weep, or at least blush and cover their faces for the sake of decency.

He pulled away, a little red in the face. If Azirapahle dared to bring it up he would claim it was the alcohol causing him to blush. It most definitely wasn't because the angel, rather than being taken aback with the obviousness of his intentions, was instead smirking.

"Well then," Aziraphale muttered, not making any attempt to pull away from Crowley. "It certainly took you long enough."

"Aziraphale, I'm so sor..." the demon began. "Wait. What?"

This wasn't how the script in his mind had gone. It went something along the lines of the angel playing hard to get and he, Crowley, seducing and finally breaking down the celestial being's defenses until he had his way with him. He hadn't thought Aziraphale would be agreeable, or for that matter, expectant.

"Crowley, I may be an angel, but I'm not a fool," Aziraphale said, levelly. "I've seen the way you look at me sometimes."

"Then why in bloody hell didn't you say anything?" Crowley half-yelled, pride bruised beyond all recognition.

There was a wispy smile on Aziraphale's face.

"Oh, it wouldn't do for an angel to bring up such things," he said. "What would you have thought of me?"

"I..." Crowley began but quickly shut his mouth.

It suddenly struck the demon that Aziraphale was quite possibly every bit the manipulative bastard that he was. It made his most assuredly cold heart skip a beat. The fact that Aziraphale was tempting _him_ was an especially delicious sort of irony. Sometimes, just sometimes, the divine plan could pull a real bugger of a surprise on you. It was sublime. Simply ineffable.

"Oh, angel," he murmured.

Then he leaned in close for another taste of those lips.


End file.
